


Inquisitors

by Alicebekett



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 08:54:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11825325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alicebekett/pseuds/Alicebekett
Summary: One-shots following my three Inquisitors. Three different people, three different stories, six one-shots.





	1. Trevelyan Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> He had always hated the Circle.

Raist Trevelyan hated the Circle.

Not because he was treated overtly poorly, not because of the Templars breathing down his neck (though that had grated on his nerves to no end), and certainly not because of the Circle itself: Ostwick was rather large, after all.

He hated it because of what it symbolized.

It symbolized the Chantry's control over mages and Templars alike, showed the vast hatred of magic and those 'cursed' with it. It brainwashed intelligent people, through the same Chantry scriptures, through controlling the lyrium leashes that the Templars were tethered to.

_"Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him."_

That line of thought was bombarded at Trevelyan constantly, and how he and 'his kind' were less than the ordinary people. How magic was a curse dealt to mankind because they were somehow worthy of the Maker's rage.

_"It was mages that caused the darkspawn, and the Blights!"_

That may be true, but that had been the result of seven cruel men. An entire population of people didn't need to be sequestered and treated like the most dangerous of people because there was simply a  _chance_ of possession.

If that was truly the case, everyone should be held in the same regard, except for dwarves-possibly- Trevelyan had never heard of a demon possessing a dwarf.

He especially hated the Chantry, and the Circle, more than he could have imagined. For they were the cause of the scene in front of him.

The Templars were sacking the Circle. Fires were burning everywhere, and the mages were fighting for their lives. Templars attacked with impunity, not caring if they killed a child or adult. Mage attacked mage, Templar attacked Templar. Siblings fought one another. All was chaos, a cacophony of noise and death.

Trevelyan clutched the small apprentice to his chest, and motioned for his friends; Fera and Lynold to follow him. They clutched their staves in their shaking hands, and followed.

The roaring flames caused chaos all on their own, but the group was mostly able to avoid the flames. Trevelyan was doing his best to lead them out, to try to get to the safety of the outside of the Circle, where the Templars wouldn't be.

When he heard Fera scream in anguish behind him, he made sure he didn't turn around. Instead, he grabbed Lynold and pulled him forward, making sure he didn't lose the girl in his other arm.

When Lynold fell, blood spraying from a wound to the neck, Trevelyan forced himself to let go of his best friends robe, and continue through the chaos. Trevelyan didn't stop when Senior Enchanter Lydia fell in front of him, despite the sudden knowledge that it had been Tren, one of her students, that killed her with a knife.

Blood covered almost all surfaces, with fire dancing off the shining surface of the Templar plate-mail. Mages were being slaughtered wherever Trevelyan looked, so he did his best to make sure little Abela didn't see, and she did her part, by making sure she buried her head in his shoulder and didn't look up.

Trevelyan managed to make it to the heavy, wooden doors, and slammed into them with full force. An earth-shattering crack, and a startling amount of pain ran through his shoulder. Rage replaced pain, and Trevelyan reached into the Fade, pulling fire and anger through the Veil, and throwing it at the door.

An earth shattering, colossal,  _boom_  shook the foundations, and Trevelyan was curled up around Abela to ensure the shrapnel didn't pierce her delicate flesh. A blast of cold air hit Trevelyan, and he breathed it in happily, no longer choking on the death-tinged air of the Circle.

However, there was a group of Templars standing in between him and the chance to live. Before Trevelyan could blink twice, he began to attack, despite Abela and his injured shoulder slowing him down.

Soon, the Templars lay dead, but Trevelyan knew Abela was injured. He couldn't stop to check how bad the damage was, though. He would have to stop when they were safe. Trevelyan ran, even though every step shook the air from his lungs, and jolted his shoulder. He ran through the back streets of a city he had only seen from the few windows that were at viewing height. When he ran out of the city, he ran into the nearby woods, his heart pounding so fast he was wondering when it was going to explode.

Squinting through eyes that were trying to see through blood, sweat, and tears, Trevelyan spotted a cave near a stream. Trevelyan stopped his frantic pace, and approached slowly, his steps fumbling and faltering.

The cave was empty. With shaking arms, Trevelyan gently set his burden down, then wiped a hand through his blood streaked, white hair. It was long, matted, and now drenched in blood. Using the last of his mana, Trevelyan lit up the cave, softly, so he could see Abela.

The young, elven apprentice was unconscious, from blood loss or exhaustion, Trevelyan wasn't sure. He carefully peeled back the layers of bloodstained fabric, only to vomit at the sight of the ghastly wound that had somehow missed him completely, and hit the young girl on the side.

Stumbling to his feet, he managed to drag Abela away from the vomit, and went to the stream. He drank greedily, doing his best to wipe of the blood from his hands and face. He then, using a cup he had stashed in his pack, thinking it would be useful in the flight, brought some to Abela. He poured the water over the wound, and the cloth that was still stuck to it. He managed to get the clothing away from the wound, and he cleaned it as well as he could..

With shaking hands, he tore off his filthy, outer robes, and revealed the more practical outfit underneath. He was wearing pants, and two shirts, taking the thicker one off, despite the chill of the night and the supernatural cold he felt at all times, and ripped it into strips. He bandaged the wound as best he could with shaking hands, and curled up around the little girl. He extinguished the light, and fell into unconsciousness himself.

(LINE BREAK)

Raist knew Abela was going to die without a proper healer, but he knew that he would find none. The wound was infected, and Raist knew that there was nothing he could do that would help. His magic had never been suited to Healing, and he had never bothered to learn beyond basic first aid he could apply with his own hands.

He did his best to quench her thirst, and feed her almost everything that he found that was edible. He carried her everywhere, despite the aching of his arms and broken shoulder, despite the blister beginning to form from where her small body rubbed against his chest.

It had been a week since Ostwick, and Raist now knew the meaning of hell.

People attacked him on the road, shouting the Chantry poison at both him and Abela. The ordinary folk knew the Templars would soon target them, even if they didn't harbour mages. They just wanted to survive.

Raist still hated them for it. Hated them for every time he had to curl himself over Abela to protect her weakened form from the beatings. Hated them for not offering food or fire. He hated them for ignoring his pleas for help, for ignoring the plight of a young man and child. Raist hated them because there were no Templars around to hate. He hated the people for ignoring the obviously ill child dying by inches in his arms.

Raist hated himself for being unable to help Abela, or himself. The longer he went without proper clothing and food, the more acutely he felt the effects of the lyrium accident so long ago. The accident that had left him mentally sound, but changed his hair from black to white, and his eyes from brown to pale blue. It had changed him completely, almost killing him before he had miraculously recovered. The frequency in which he had nightmares skyrocketed, he felt the cold more acutely, and if he wasn't careful, the lung diseases that he had suffered from as a child would resurface.

Raist had found mediocre shelter underneath large willow tree. They would be protected from the elements and from prying eyes. He carefully woke Abela up, fed her some berries, and made her sip some water. He cradled her against his chest, humming a tune he couldn't remember the words to. It calmed them both, and often helped Abela fall to sleep without fuss.

Suddenly, she shifted in his arms, and smiled, "You're re'ly nice. Did y' kno' that?"

Raist smiled weakly, "No one's ever told me, no."

"You're 'lot nicer tha' the boys my age," She said quietly, " 'nd you're takin' care of me... My side doesn' burn so bad now."

This filled Raist with alarm. The last time he had asked her how she felt, a few hours ago, Abela had told him it felt like her side was on fire. He had checked it not five minutes ago, and found it had turned gangrenous.

"I hope you ge' free from th' b'd men in armour," Abela whispered, "they alwa's scared me."

"You don't need to be scared of them any more," Raist said, stroking her hair away from her face.

"I know tha' now... 'm tired. C'n I go to sleep now?"

Raist nodded, his voice unable to work because of the lump in his throat.

He held Abela as she fell asleep, and held her until she stopped breathing. Then, he clutched her corpse and sobbed bitterly, cursing everything that had caused her death, including himself.

Raist buried Abela the next morning, leaving her under the willow tree where she would be safe. Using his dagger, he cut her name into the trunk of the tree, and then cut his long, matted hair. It was impractical, and filthy.

He sniffed, scrubbing at his eyes, and running a hand through the shorter, choppy hair that fell into his eyes. Raist stood his staff up against the tree, and left. If he got rid of it, than he could pretend to not be a mage until he figured out where he was going.

Trevelyan left, despite the unsettling feeling of weightlessness that came from the absence of Abela and his staff.

(LINE BREAK)

Trevelyan kept to himself as he travelled, only stopping when he saw the chance to make a few gold, or when he found a small village that he could buy supplies from. He learned about the Divine's Conclave in one of these villages.

Trevelyan couldn't stand by anymore and watch the chaos and disorder that was unfolding throughout the country. He desired freedom, but he wanted to make the fighting between the Templars and mages stop. The fighting beniffited no one, and endangered all.

So began the journey to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, where he could watch, and hopefully share his story to the woman that controlled the Chantry.

(LINE BREAK)

As weeks passed by, Trevelyan began to wonder if he would make it to the Conclave after all. His shoulder hadn't set properly, making it almost impossible to do anything with his right hand. His lungs began a daily battle to see if they could kill him, they hadn't won yet, but it was beyond difficult most days.

The closer Trevelyan got to the Frostback Mountains, the colder it became. The chill that never left his body, no matter how close he sat to the fire, made it difficult to do anything. The fact that Trevelyan hadn't been able to afford anything more protective than a thin cloak and fur lined boots hadn't helped him any.

One day around four days travel from the Conclave, the Conclave being held the week after to allow people from the farthest corners of Thedas to attend, Trevelyan stumbled across a lone farm, sitting atop a hill.

Trevelyan knew he was ill, could tell because he shivered so much that his teeth chattered, even though his body was bathed in sweat. He could tell because of the cough that made his throat and lungs feel like they were on fire. Trevelyan knew that he would probably die from the illness that was robbing him of his air.

What he didn't expect was suddenly fainting in front of the farmhouse, in full view of the occupants, who had been watching him warily from the door.

(LINE BREAK)

When Trevelyan woke up, he found himself warm for the first time in weeks. He could hear the sounds of a roaring fireplace, and could hear someone breathing. Eventually, his curiosity won over his exhaustion, and he slowly opened his eyes.

He was in a large room, in a cot that was pushed close to the fire. Thick, rough blankets covered his lanky frame, and a surprisingly soft pillow cushioned his head. Trevelyan looked to his right, where he could hear the breathing, and saw a middle-aged woman stoking the fire.

Trevelyan swallowed dryly, and coughed, igniting a sudden pain in his throat and lungs.

The woman turned around, and she smiled, "Good, you're awake. My husband was beginning to worry," she filled a cup from a pitcher, and brought it forward. She helped him sip the water, then tucked the blankets back around him, easing Trevelyan back onto the pillow, "I'm Melanie."

"Raist," Trevelyan rasped, not wanting the woman to hear his influential last name.

"Good to put a name to your face, young man. Now, I suppose you're going to the Conclave?"

Trevelyan nodded, "I...haven't missed it?"

"No. There's still eight days. You can rest here until you're ready to leave."

"Thanks," Trevelyan rasped.

"What did you do to your shoulder, if you don't mind me asking."

"Fell," The lie came quickly to his lips, "Down stairs."

Melanie nodded, "My brother broke his shoulder. There's nothing we can do, sorry."

"S'okay," Trevelyan replied, "Knew it would be...difficult."

Melanie smiled reluctantly, "Do you need anything? I've got some soup on the fire now, that shouldn't take too much longer to cook."

"That sounds heavenly," That wasn't a lie. The majority of the hot food he'd eaten during his travels was the sludge that inns and taverns sold cheap. From the smell, Trevelyan could tell the soup cooking beside him was nowhere near the level of depravity of the sludge he's been almost unable to choke down.

"We've been getting loads of traveller's passing through this way now, with the Conclave and all. Why are you going? You don't look like a mage, and you don't look like a Templar."

Trevelyan smiled, "This effects...everyone. Not just mages and Templars."

Melanie nodded in agreement, "Maker knows that's true enough."

The next while passed in silence. Just as Trevelyan was beginning to fall asleep again, Melanie forced him to eat some soup, then let him drift back into unconsciousness.

(LINE BREAK)

The next three days passed in a blur of sleep and food. Trevelyan slowly grew back to strength, and the farmers were kind to him. The first real kindness he'd experienced since Ostwick. It was refreshing, and comforting.

On the fourth day, Trevelyan felt well enough to continue on his journey. It would be rushed and hard, but Trevelyan was confident he would make it. He felt better than he'd had since Ostwick, even with his shoulder unable to do half of what he wanted it to do.

He woke up and thanked the farmers, especially Melanie, who had given him a better cloak and another thick tunic to wear. Then he had set off, toward the Temple.

After that, Trevelyan's memory became more than a little blurred. He remembered the sight of the gleaming stones, the magic filling the air. He remembered the glare of the templars hidden behind their helms.

He remembered...blackness... then running, and a glowing woman who said something he couldn't quite hear. Then, he remembered stepping through something, and breathing in a lungful of sooty, thick air.

Then, nothing once more.

When Trevelyan woke up again, he found himself on his knees, chained to the ground. Everything ached, especially his left hand. A sudden pulse of  _something_  that felt suspiciously like the Fade ignited something that was more painful than fire, that started in the palm of his hand and travelled up his arm and into his shoulder.

Trevelyan cried out, and stared down at his hand. There seemed to be a rift in the skin...which was glowing lime green. Confusion filled Trevelyan's still tired brain, and he tried to look around to see what was going on.

There were guards, but they wouldn't meet his gaze. In fact, most of them wouldn't even look in his general direction. Trevelyan slumped against the ground, clenching his glowing hand into a fist.

_Oh, this is not good._


	2. Trevelyan Part 2

Trevelyan was not what Cassandra had expected. At all. The man who survived the Conclave was crippled, a mage, and had an attitude that could fell entire nations with it's wit. He could be ruthless when required, but also seemed to care the most about the common people, despite most of the nobility looking down on him for such a thing.

Trevelyan was also possibly one of the most mysterious people Cassandra had ever met, he would talk to others about their past, but he very rarely mentioned his own.

Early on, back in Haven, Cassandra has asked him where he was from. The man, still exhausted and limping slightly from closing the Breach, had looked at her with his too pale eyes for a long moment before answering. Trevelyan had shuffled his feet, looked at the group of soldiers Cullen was training, and said in his hoarse voice:

"Ostwick."

Cassandra nodded, that made sense. It explained his accent, and the fact that he had clearly been a Circle mage. She had been about to ask him something else, about how the Circle fell, but when she had turned to face him completely, he was already limping away toward the gate.

Other than that, Cassandra knew desperately little about him. While she had been curious, she wasn't curious enough to ask Leliana to go digging. Part of Cassandra knew she was worried about what could be found. Another part of her, knew that Trevelyan would probably say something on his own.

Now, though, several months later, Cassandra was beginning to doubt her original assessment. The man barely slept, barely ate, and worked tirelessly to make sure the Inquisition survived and their enemies died. It was fantastic, what the man could do with a modified staff.

They were sitting in camp in the Hinterlands, tying up loose ends and seeing what they could find in terms of raw resources. It had been a pleasant, if tiring, day. Dorian had already retired to the tent he shared with the Inquisitor, and Iron Bull had gone off into the night to do something or other.

Trevelyan was staring into the fire, his shaggy white hair hanging into his exhausted eyes. He nursed a tankard of mead in his good hand, while his right arm was cradled against his chest, the fingers threading themselves through Trevelyan's robes.

"If you don't mind me asking," Cassandra blurted, "Why didn't you get your shoulder healed? Surely it would have been easier than having a limb that is mostly useless."

"I couldn't," Trevelyan replied evenly, sipping his drink, "I was on the way to the Conclave. I was alone... you know how useless I am with healing."

Cassandra nodded. That she knew, all too well. There was a pregnant pause, then Trevelyan spoke again.

"As far as I know, I'm the only mage that escaped Ostwick," Trevelyan admitted, "A few tried to leave, but I was... the only one that survived long enough to come to the Conclave."

"Annulment?" Cassandra asked.

Trevelyan shrugged his good shoulder, "I don't know. I was upstairs when I heard the first screams. I packed a bag with whatever I thought I would need. A few friends and one little apprentice," Trevelyan's voice cracked, "tried to run. My friends died in the Circle, and Abela died on the trail a few weeks after."

"What happened?"

"A Templar wounded her when we got out. I-I couldn't save her. The infection killed her."

"I'm sorry," Cassandra said slowly, "We could send emissaries to Ostwick."

"I don't want to know what happened," Trevelyan said roughly, "I don't want to know who died or who lived in that damned hell hole. I lost everything when the Templars attacked us, and I've moved on as best I can. I saw Templars slaying children cowering under their beds, Cassandra. I saw-I saw an enchanter being killed by her own student. I saw so much."

Cassandra nodded, "Is that why you hate the Circle?"

Trevelyan nodded, slamming his empty tankard on the ground beside him, "I never really liked the Circle, but I could understand  _why_. That night was chaos, it was war in the ugliest sense of the word. If the new Divine wants to reinstate the Circle as it was before, I will be strongly against it. I believe there should be schools, but mages should be able to live as other people do. Regulated, and monitored I can see. Controlled and killed for simply existing is not alright."

Cassandra nodded, "I understand, I think."

Trevelyan smirked, then stood, his knees creaking. He stretched, moving his bad shoulder as much as he could before letting his arm hang limply at his side, "I'm glad you can. Vivienne frustrates me to no end."

Cassandra snorted, "I can imagine."

Trevelyan disappeared into his tent, leaving Cassandra to her thoughts.

(LINE BREAK)

The next time Cassandra was able to talk to the Inquisitor about his past was a few weeks later, when they were camping in Emprise du Lion. It was cold, and freezing rain. The Inquisitor was left shivering helplessly whenever he had to leave more than a layer of blankets behind. The group had opted to take a break and spend the day back at camp.

Despite the fact that Trevelyan was sitting as close to the blazing fire as he could, he was still shaking like a leaf. He was wrapped in multiple, thick blankets, with his hood cast over his head. Bull was sleeping in his tent, and Dorian was on the other side of camp, mixing up a potion.

It was Cassandra's job to keep the fire as hot as possible, and she was beginning to realize why. Sitting across the fire from the Inquisitor, Cassandra could hear the man's teeth chattering.

"If you're ill, we can go back to Skyhold."

Trevelyan shook his head, "No. Not sick... not really. Lyrium."

Cassandra's body was filled with alarm, "Not red lyrium?"

"No," Trevelyan coughed into his blankets, "Accident. I should have died. Now I'm freezing most of the time."

"Lyrium can do that?" Cassandra muttered, surprised.

"I'm one of few who's survived an accident like mine... It sucks more than it's helped."

"Has it augmented your powers at all?"

Trevelyan shrugged his lopsided shrug, "I suppose. I've always been good at magic, so I'm not sure if I'm as powerful as I am because of raw talent, or because of the accident."

Cassandra nodded, "Did it hurt?"

"I don't know. I don't remember the three days before the accident. No one involved ever told me-" Trevelyan paused to shiver heavily for a few minutes, "and now there's no one I can ask."

Cassandra stoked the fire, "Is that why your eyes are blue like that?"

Trevelyan's lips twitched, "Yes."

"That's... rather incredible."

Trevelyan nodded, "I almost died."

"Lyrium is usually fatal," Cassandra said dryly.

Trevelyan shot her his signature smirk, "Don't forget it. Do you think if we got Bull to stand on the mountain over there and shout that, that the Red Templars would give up?"

"It would be an interesting solution."

Trevelyan opened his mouth to say something, but another round of violent shivers made him curl into himself pathetically.

"Do you need anything?" Cassandra asked quietly.

A small shake of his head was Trevelyan's answer. Looking at the man, Cassandra was suddenly struck by how young he really was. He was twenty if he was lucky, certainly not old enough by most standards to be traipsing about Orlais and Ferelden slaying dragons and killing monsters told in the Chantry's myths. To be fair, Hawke was young, and the Hero of Fereldan had just turned eighteen when they had begun their journeys.

Dorian sitting beside the Inquisitor broke Cassandra's thoughts. Trevelyan leaned against the Tevinter mage, sighing in comfort. In Dorian's hand, was a potion bottle. He handed it to Trevelyan, who's good hand snaked out from the layers of fabric to grasp the cold bottle. Trevelyan drank the potion, setting the bottle on the ground beside him.

"The potion should warm you up," Dorian explained, smiling weekly, "It should make you feel better by tomorrow."

"Will it help with my damned shoulder?" Trevelyan asked tightly.

Dorian sighed, "No, sorry  _amatus_. However, it should help you sleep deeply for today."

Trevelyan's head spun around, "What!?"

"Sitting here shivering all day isn't going to help. You need rest, you need sleep."

Trevelyan growled something under his breath that would make a Revered Sister blush, but didn't resist when Dorian carefully stood him up and lead him back into their tent.

Cassandra smiled at the sight, and stood up herself. She retired to her own tent, taking the time to finally finish the latest volume of  _Swords and Shields._ It was unlikely that Cassandra was going to learn anything else about Trevelyan anytime soon.

Perhaps Trevelyan wasn't as unapproachable as everyone seemed to think he was.

(LINE BREAK)

See? Short, to the point. Nothing huge. I'm planning on doing similar things with the other two Inquisitor's. It should be fun. I'm excited.

As always, feel free to leave a review/PM me. I love hearing from people, honestly.


	3. Darrien Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is broken up into several parts, at least two. About different companions asking about Lavellan's past.
> 
> Needless to say this isn't Raist Trevelyan. This is Darrian Lavellan, a grumpy, gruff elf that everyone assumes is a mage or rogue. They never think he's a warrior. It's just infuriating.

 

 

One-Cassandra

Darrian Lavellan glared at the dummy, swinging his two handed sword in an attempt to break it. He wondered briefly what he had done to anger the gods. Darrian was surrounded by humans that had no concept of what the Dalish were really like. Darrian hadn't had many good interactions with humans or other races, and suddenly being thrust into a position where he had to interact with humans all the time, was seriously making him wish he could just go back to his clan.

"Lavellan," Cassandra's voice made him pause in his training.

"What?" He asked, standing straight and leaning against the sword that people were amazed he could even lift, much less use effectively.

"It just occurred to me that I don't know much about you."

 _Oh gods,_ "And?"

"I was wondering where you're from."

Darrian briefly considered lying, then tossed the idea. Leliana was sure to know more about him then he'd like already. Cassandra could always go fact check.

"My clan wandered the Free Marches, though we sometimes came across the Amaranthine Sea to come here to Fereldan."

"Really? I didn't know clans could move so much."

Darrian shrugged, "Some do, some don't. The clans are many and varied."

What is it like?"

"What is what like?"

"Not living in one place, always moving."

"We stay in some spots for longer than others. There are places we could set up permanent camp, but we are the Dalish, so we won't," Darrian muttered, "It'd hard work, but worth it."

Cassandra nodded, "I've always wondered. What it would be like, to not have anywhere to call home."

"The clan is home," Darrian replied evenly, once again picking up his sword.  _Can you take a hint and leave? I haven't done half of the training I usually do yet._

Cassandra watched him resume his training for a few minutes before she left.

(LINE BREAK)

Two-Josephine

"Herald, may I see you for a moment?"

Darrian's hand stopped mid-motion, caught half-way between his body and the door to the War Room. Darrian carefully sighed through his nose, then turned on his heel and walked into Josephine's office.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to ask… if you've been given a hard time."

Darrian stared, "Because I'm an elf?"

Josephine nodded, "Yes. I'm aware this is a delicate"-

"No, it's not. I'm an elf, and I'm Dalish. I hear whispers sometimes, but nothing usually directed to my face. People are talking, Josephine, but they aren't treating me any worse than the average elf."

"I-I suppose that's good. Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did."

One of Josephine's eyebrows rose, "You know what I mean."

Darrian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He remembered the Keeper's words:  _"Be polite!"_

"Yes."

"I'm sure I can ease some tension by telling the people what kind of life you lead with your clan. If you would please tell me what it was like, I could-"

"There was a lot of hard work. Slavers sometimes showed up if we were too close to their hunting grounds. We looked after each other, and everyone was family. The aravels are cramped, the halla stink, but you've never lived until you and several other hunters have accidentally wandered into a giant's lair and have had to flee for your life."

Josephine's eyes widened, "Please tell me you're joking."

Darrian allowed a small smirk to grace his features, "I'm not. Is that good enough?"

"I'm not sure…how many mages did you have in your clan?"

"Three. The Keeper, and the First and Second. Why do you need to know that?"

"To disprove a nasty rumour I'd rather not repeat."

"That we're all blood mages that dance around naked under the full moon?"

"Surely Sir Gren didn't tell you that himself!?"

Darrian's smirk turned sour, "No. I've heard it all before. Don't sugar-coat, Josephine. I've been seen as less than scum my entire life. I know what people think and say."

"Of course, Herald," Josephine nodded, "I apologize. I was trying not to offend"-

"I know. How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?"

"Many times, sir."

(LINE BREAK)

Three-Leliana

Darrian had collapsed into the little bed in his cabin the moment he'd slipped off his boots, armour, and sword. It had been a hard, long day, and he wanted it to be over. He was hungry, tired, and cold. In the span of one day Darrian had fallen into a lake, almost drowned in the lake, almost been gutted by a bandit, had most of his armour removed forcibly by Cassandra to ensure he was alright after the near drowning and gutting. Then it had rained, and he had been soaked through when they left the Hinterlands and began to walk back to Haven. The water had frozen in his clothes and hair, making him miserable, and more moody according to Varric.

The sound of someone clearing their throat brought Darrian bounding to his feet, grabbing the dagger he had hidden under his pillow-

And there was Leliana, sitting by the fire in his only chair. He let the hand holding the dagger drop to his side.

"What is it? I'm hungry and tired. I want to cook dinner, eat it, and then go to bed."

"I apologize, Herald. I have some questions."

"Doesn't everyone?" Darrian replied, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed.

"Yes. I would like mine to be answered, if that's alright."

Darrian brought a hand to his forehead, trying to rub the sudden ache that appeared behind his eyes, "You're not going to leave me alone until I answer them. Ask away."

"What made you chose to be a warrior? I've seen you move, and you could have easily become a rogue such as myself."

"I like big swords, and I cannot lie," Darrian replied, smirking.

"The real answer, please."

Darrian stared at the woman for a moment, before sighing, "I was young when I experienced the first attack made on our clan for many years. We were camped near a sizable village, and had been trading with the people there for a few days. We were supposed to leave in the morning, which the humans knew. One drunk idiot had decided one of us had stolen his helm-which we hadn't. He gathered a party of similarly prejudiced or drunk people, and they raided our camp. I hadn't even begun my training with bows, or daggers yet. One of the men cornered me, utterly convinced I was a girl. I tried to tell him differently, but he wouldn't listen. The only weapon nearby was a gigantic, two-handed sword. I hadn't begun training yet, but I was tall and strong for my age, so I grabbed it, and tried to defend myself. I missed, horribly. I had been aiming for the man's torso, but I hit his knee instead. He went down screaming like a shriek. I decided then, that the sword that had saved me would be my weapon. A few days after, I started training."

Leliana stared at him for a long moment, and Darrian grit his teeth, "Don't pity me. I'm one of the lucky ones. I got it out of that entire night with only a few scars and a new sword. Several of us didn't make it, and I've known the women to be trapped and raped because they're seen as inferior."

"I know. Thank you for telling me that. Can I ask one more question?"

"Yes," Darrian breathed, though he knew she could tell he wasn't happy about it.

"Is that why you don't like humans?"

Darrian blinked, "No. And no, I'm not going to tell you why I have a problem with most humans."

Leliana stood up, and strode toward the door, "Thank you again for the chat. I'll see you tomorrow."

Darrian watched as the door closed, then fell back onto the bed. That was it, the last straw. He crawled under the furs, and watched the fire until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

_A shitty end to the day from Fen'Harel himself. May he take anyone who tries to wake me up early tomorrow._


	4. Darrien Part 2

Darrian Lavellan knew that he didn't look like a warrior. He was slight, even for an elf. He was taller than the average elf, but that served only to emphasis his slightness. On top of that, he was handsome in a way that made him look like a woman if he grew his hair out. High, graceful cheekbones, thin lips, bright green eyes, and auburn hair furthered this opinion of himself. His deep, growling voice often shocked people into stunned silence; which was why he used it so much. Then, unlike most warriors, elven or not, he just wasn't  _muscled_  like a warrior of his skill.

All of Darrian's muscle was corded and slight, belaying his strength. He could outpace most warriors twice his size for twice as long, he had long delicate fingers, and he had the makings of a perfect rogue. All these things made the knowledge that he was a warrior that swung around a weapon that weighed practically as much as he did all the more satisfying. The fact that he swung the sword around like it was nothing was just an added bonus.

The expression on Cassandra's face when she'd turned around after fighting one of two demons that had appeared after the bridge caved in had been priceless. The fact that he'd wielded a large blade like a pro had startled her.

Then, Cassandra took it in stride with no questions after it had been decided that he could keep the weapon. Later, when he'd asked for the blade he'd had on him at the time of the explosion, Cassandra had it handed over in no time at all, quietly apologizing for the lack of upkeep.

The blade that had saved his life was old, but had been kept in such a state of cleanliness and sharpness that most never guessed its age. The fact that he upgraded the handle as often as possible helped as well.

After a while of fighting with the Inquisition, and realizing the old thing couldn't help him any longer, he'd had a portion of the metal of the blade melted down into a pendant for him to wear. The new blade, forged with much better materials, was made in its predecessor's likeness. Which had been a little confusing for a while: the blade looked mostly the same, except the colour and old scratches and dents he'd never managed to get out of various parts of the blade.

The others had thought Darrian a little foolish for wearing the usable metal rather than donating to the Inquisition's cause: all except Leliana (who knew why the metal was special) and Cassandra (who Darrian figured could probably guess why). Darrian was tight-lipped on the subject, but still found himself staring down at the small, shining halla and wondering if taking even this small amount from the Inquisition was a good idea.

The halla was exquisitely made, and had all the details that could be made on it. Antlers, eyes, hooves. It was all one colour, it wasn't white, but it was doing its job of reminding him of home and where he had come from. Darrian found himself clenching it in his hand, or touching it when he was stressed. He had sliced his palm open on more than one occasion on the sharp edges of pendent.

One morning, Darrian woke early so he could train with the dummies on the edges of Haven without an audience. He stripped off his shirt, knowing that in a few minutes he would be sweating like a pig. He attacked the dummy with full force, imagining he was attacking one of the bandits that often accosted him on the road. Moving with the fluidity he had inherited from his father, Darrian began his training exercises, the cold metal pendant bouncing off his thin chest.

The faceless mercenary suddenly changed in his mind's eye, turning into that of the human that had killed Darrian's sister. Anger filled Darrian, and he swung hard against the neck of the unmoving 'opponent'.

The head of the dummy flew off, and landed at a still half-asleep Cullen's feet. The anger and mental image drained from Darrian as soon as they'd appeared. Panting, Darrian picked up his shirt and stormed back through the gate of Haven. He wasn't in a mood to put up with a shem's questions.

(LINE BREAK)

Darrian paced the length of his cabin, pressing his hands into his temples. If only he could rip out the anger and hatred of a race that had seemed to hate him from the moment he was born. Why was this suddenly a problem? Why was he having second thoughts about his preconceptions when many humans would look down on him, both figuratively and literally?

A knock on his door startled Darrian from his thoughts. He opened the door, fully ready to yell at whomever wanted to disturb him. However, it was Cassandra: one of the few humans that had ever accepted him for him. He opened the door fully, "Yes?"

Cassandra cleared her throat, looking uncharacteristically awkward, "Cullen told me what happened this morning. I thought I had issues."

Darrian snorted, moving aside so Cassandra could come inside, "I would like to tell you I'm sorry, but I'm not."

"I thought not. Do I have to worry about you killing any more of our equipment?"

Darrian shrugged, "Possibly. It depends on if Solas takes all the hearth cakes again."

Cassandra's lips tugged into a smile, "No one would blame you for pummeling some equipment then. Can you?"-

"My sister died when I was ten. Just after I started training as a warrior."

"I'm sorry."

"A human man killed her right in front of me. His…friends held me in place and made me watch as they…they did things to her. While she was still crying for mercy, he shoved a dagger straight through her neck. They made me watch her bleed like a stuck pig."

Cassandra's face turned into a stony mask, "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"She was older than me. She could wield a bow like no one else, and she didn't even die a death befitting for an animal. I was helpless, stripped of my weapon and still not strong enough to get the shems to let me go," Darrian's eyes were bright with anger, "When they let me go, they thought I would be too grief-stricken to go after my sword and kill them."

Darrian looked Cassandra in the eye, standing straight, "I proved them wrong. I gutted them, and made them suffer lingering deaths like Valia. Do you understand now, why I have so many problems with you  _humans_  and your views of  _obviously inferior_ people? Do you see why I don't cringe at every slight an insult that I've already heard a hundred times?  _Do you understand why I don't want to be known as the bloody HEARALD OF ANDRASTE?_ " Darrian's face was red with rage, and he was shouting, "I don't believe in your Maker and His Bride. I don't believe that the beliefs of the Dalish are so evil that we have to be purged from the world and treated as less than the poorest of humans!"

"Lavellan"-

"I left my clan so I could tell the Keeper what the  _hell_  was happening to the world, but then the world became even shittier! There are demons spilling from the Fade, I apparently entered the Fade  _physically_ , and I'm separated from my family! I can't help them, and I'm worried that all the Inquisition will do is make things worse for my family and the other clans!"

One hand was clenching the pendant hard, the pain centered Darrian. Cassandra's wide eyes and the pain he felt suddenly dampened the anger, and Darrian realized what he had said. Darrian slumped against the door, prying his hand away from the metal. His palm was sliced open again, bleeding freely.

"Elgar'nan," Darrian hissed, moving to press the sleeve of his shirt into the wound to try to stay the bleeding.

"I-I didn't know you felt like this," Cassandra murmured quietly.

"I'm sorry…I haven't been sleeping well," Not a lie, anyone could tell by looking at his eyes, "And I've been surrounded by humans non-stop for weeks. I-I've never liked crowds, even when it's not humans"-

"I-I understand. I apologize for the intrusion. I'll leave you to your thoughts. I'll ensure people know to leave you alone," Cassandra said, her voice not quite as lively as it should have been.

Darrian watched as the warrior stiffly moved to the door. He noticed, as she shut the door behind her, that her eyes were empty; implying she was running on autopilot.

"Dammnit," Darrian growled, "Damn me and my big mouth."

(LINE BREAK)

Darrian sat on the roof of the Chantry, staring at the green, glowing, and stinging scar on his hand. It wasn't growing anymore, and it wasn't open like it had been in the beginning. Which Darrian could only be happy about- an infection in the hand would be fatal to his fighting days.

Staring at the mark, he began to wonder if he was the right person to bear this burden. Surely, almost anyone else would be the better option. Turning his gaze skyward, Darrian truly began to wonder if there were any mystical beings that controlled the fate of every person on Thedas.

For, as much as he claimed to believe in the Dalish faith, he held no more stock in it than he did the Maker. Was it possible that the gods were there, but trapped and unable to help? Yes. However, Darrian thought it just as likely that the gods had been spirits or demons, or other unknown supernatural forces.

Clenching his fist, the mark flared in colour, basking the rooftop with odd green and black shadows. Footsteps approached, and the green light from the mark faded a little.

"I heard what happened," Varric said, sitting down on the ledge beside Darrian.

"Cassandra told you?"

"No. I literally heard what you shouted at her. That was harsh, even for you."

"I know," Darrian replied quietly, "I didn't realize I'd said it until it came out."

"You don't really believe you've been chosen?"

"Not unless whoever's doing the choosing has a sick sense of humour."

"From how the Chantry sisters go on, I doubt it was Andraste or the Maker."

"From how the Keeper goes on, I doubt it was the elven gods, either. Please tell me I'm not the only person to think that whatever created this damn world had to have had a sense of humour."

"What do you mean?"

"You've seen some of the wild animals that wonder Thedas, right? Both predator and prey? Whoever made some of them had to have had a sick sense of humour, or they were drunk."

Varric snorted, "I suppose you're right.

There was a pause, then Darrian spoke again.

"I never learned how to read or write. Don't look at me like that, it was a personal choice for the most part. I was always busy training, hunting, or working. I kept meaning to make time to learn, but I never bothered. The majority of my clan can read and write the common tongue. If you have some spare time, would you mind teaching me?"

Varric stared in wonder at the young elf, because for the first time, he'd noticed how  _young_ Darrian was. Before his brain had a chance to catch up, his heart had already decided. He was nodding before he realized what teaching the warrior would entail.

An odd, almost shy smile appeared on Darrian's face, "Thank you, Varric."

Varric nodded, "You're welcome, kid."


	5. Vesa Lavellan Part 1

Vesa Lavellan had always been a quiet girl, preferring to read the limited amount of books that her clan kept, or pursuing her studies, or learning from anyone that she knew. She flitted around the aravels, from elf to elf, asking quiet questions.

Most of the time, she often didn't need to ask questions. After a while, her clan just started telling her new information, and Vesa absorbed it all like a sponge, tying it all together with whatever lessons she learned from her Keeper, or from the humans she sometimes met while the clan was trying to trade.

Vesa learned, from a very young age, that she was an excellent peacekeeper. She listened to both sides of the argument, and was often able to come up with a reasonable compromise that both parties could deal with. Only later in life, just after her eighteenth birthday, would she realize how important her thirst for knowledge and her negotiating skills would be to her.

When Vesa first woke in the dungeon in Haven, all she could think of was the horrible, all consuming  _throbbing_  that consumed her left hand, burning its way up until her elbow. She had been chained, and cold, with a throbbing headache, and an aftertaste of magic that she shouldn't have touched.

Vesa had almost lost her patience when Cassandra and Leliana had barraged her with questions, not even giving her time to explain that she didn't know what had happened to the Divine or the Conclave. Only through breathing deeply, and trying to ride out the horrible waves of pain, did Vesa find the patience not to roast either of them.

Days later, when the Breach had been temporarily sealed, and it was clear that Vesa was going to have some part to play in the coming events, did Vesa finally find it in her heart to forgive the humans who had accused her. After all, Vesa knew that if something similar had happened to the Keeper, she'd have done the same thing they'd done.

Vesa, despite her unease and unfamiliarity with humans in general, soon thrived on the incoming flood of information she was learning on a daily basis. History, current events, politics, important figures in Thedas, herbology, and more than a dozen other topics soon were absorbed into the already impressive wealth of practical knowledge Vesa knew.

Not only that, but Vesa soon found herself being plagued with people coming to her trying to solve their problems, big or small. She solved them using her skills, drawing on information and her instincts to try to help everyone around her, even if they didn't like the fact she was Dalish very much.

Vesa wasn't the stupid, naive child many thought her to be. She may be inexperienced, though that was quickly righting itself. Even then, she could handle herself, and be a leader. She had been training to be the clan's First, after all. She was far more experienced than many assumed, even if her experience couldn't compare to the massive task in front of her.

Solas had quickly become Vesa's friend. He would listen, and he understood her dilemmas more than any of her other friends could. Solas was an apostate like her, he knew Elvhen like her, he was an elf like her, and he was wise, intelligent, and caring. He was all of these things, so very similar to herself, but he was very different too. He knew Elvhen that she didn't, spoke it differently than any Dalish Vesa had ever met, his magic  _felt_  different, and he certainly wasn't a Dalish.

Not too long after they had cemented their friendship, Vesa realized she was in love with him. A little while after, it was clear he felt the same. Though, it was extremely difficult to categorize their relationship: they weren't often physical in their affection, it was highly unlikely they would ever marry or have children, and they argued just as much as they discussed. Vesa loved him, and she relied on him to help her make the decisions that were best for the people of Thedas.

When Vesa closed the Breach,  _again_ , she had thought her problems would dwindle as the need for the Inquisition declined. How wrong she was.

Corypheus and the power he wielded could be enough to destroy Thedas. It  _would_  be enough to destroy Thedas, if Vesa couldn't stop him. In quick succession, Haven was overrun, Skyhold was found and claimed, and she became the leader of the Inquisition.

Vesa was soon the leader of an army of ordinary people, mages, and a mismatched group of idiots who could barely stop bickering to get anything done. She had political power, and status, and a say in almost everything that happened in Thedas.

Still, Vesa relied on Solas more than she should have. She relied on all of her friends: Dorian, Cassandra, Leliana, and the others. However, she relied very much on Solas.

It was Solas she let heal her wounds, it was Solas who held her the night she'd heard her clan had been killed, it was Solas who eased her fever after she fell into the bog in the Fallow Mire. She tried to be there for him, but she could also see a wall in between them. There was something keeping Solas from relying on her like she did. Vesa did her best, trying to get Solas to open up, get him to confide in her as she'd done with him.

It came as a complete shock when Solas finally told her some of the elven knowledge he knew. What shocked her wasn't the language he'd been teaching her, wasn't about architecture or battle, but it was the Vallaslin that made her sit down hard on a rock.

Vesa had listened to what Solas was saying, listened to his tale of how the ink had marked slaves. Then, Vesa had weighed her options. She'd thought of her dead clan, thought of the other Dalish who had marked themselves mistakenly and had worn the ink with pride.

Never before had Vesa regretted the tattoos. Never had she felt a rise of such anger at the ancient elves. She had stood, looked Solas in the eye, and asked for the Vallaslin to be removed. His magic, so careful and light, had tickled and tingled.

Then, Solas had ended their relationship. He'd walked away, leaving her in the clearing, shocked and angry.

Vesa now peered into the water, staring at the place where the blood red tattoo had been over her left eye, and wished she could get it back again. Now more than ever, Vesa wanted to remember the horrible pain of the needle, she wanted to feel the pride she'd felt for years.

Confused, shocked, and emotional, Vesa then stumbled back to Skyhold, found Dorian, and sobbed into his shoulder, confusing the living daylights out of the other mage. It had taken him almost an hour of calm reassurances, four glasses of wine, and some shouting for him to get the full story.

A few days later, Vesa looked at the black eye and nasty bruises Solas now sported with both gratitude and sadness. Vesa resolved to treat Solas no differently than she did her friends, even though her heart ached for him like her face had ached after getting her vallaslin.

<

 


End file.
